Nostalgia: Happy memories of Hele Village

When we married in 1972, life began for us in the humblest and happiest of ways — in a little two-up, two-down terraced house at 23 Orchard Road, Hele Village, Torquay.

The front door opened straight onto the street, where neighbours leaned on garden walls for a chat, and the smell of coal fires drifted through the evening air. Hele was one of those places where everyone knew each other, where doors were left unlocked and kettles were always on the boil for whoever dropped by.

I was working at Crossman’s Builders Merchants on the Teignmouth Road back then — a steady job that gave you a reason to get up with pride each morning. The lorries would roll in, dust flying, drivers shouting greetings, and the smell of sawn timber and cement hung in the air like perfume for working men. Crossman’s wasn’t just a place of work; it was part of the town’s heartbeat — every builder, bricklayer, and plasterer seemed to pass through those gates at some point.

After a long day’s graft, I’d head home through Teignmouth Road and up Hele Road, and into Hele, past the Standard Inn where the regulars would already be in full voice, laughing over pints and the day’s gossip. The closer I got to Orchard Road, the quieter things became — just the faint echo of kids playing football against the gable ends, the thump of a ball, and the occasional “Mind the window!” ringing through the air.

No. 23 was small, but it was ours. Two rooms downstairs — a living room with a coal fire that never quite went out, and a kitchen that smelt of toast, tea, and new beginnings. Upstairs, two small bedrooms with uneven floors and windows that rattled when the wind came down from Watcombe Hill. But it was home, filled with laughter, hope, and that early kind of love that makes the world seem bigger than it really is.

Hele Village in those days was alive with character. The Buff Lodge, the Standard Inn, and the Con Club were the beating hearts of the community, while Barton Downs was its soul. On Saturday afternoons, the roar of a football match drifted over the rooftops as Hele Rovers, Hele Spurs, or the Spartans took to the field. Football wasn’t just a sport here — it was a way of life, a thread that bound neighbours and families together.

I’d played in goal for Hele Rovers and Acorn Youth, and what a crowd of characters we had — Derek Chalk, Roy and Keith Stuckey, Dennis Holt, Phil German, Alex Roffey, and more besides. Every one of them could play, but more than that, every one of them was loyal. We’d run through brick walls for one another. No one ever asked for glory; we just wanted to play, to represent our village with pride.

After the match, we’d wash off the mud — or not — and head for a pint at the Buff or the Standard. The jokes flew faster than the beer flowed. Someone would always bring up a missed penalty or a dodgy referee call, and we’d argue about it until closing time. It wasn’t rowdy — it was family. And when we spilled out into the night air, the stars over Hele felt close enough to touch.

Life in Orchard Road had a rhythm all its own. Saturday mornings were for cleaning windows and washing the car, Sunday mornings for the smell of roast beef drifting through every house. Kids would be out with footballs and skipping ropes, the older ones off on their bikes to Watcombe Beach or Babbacombe Downs. Everyone looked out for each other — if your light bulb went, someone had a spare; if you were short of a few pennies till payday, someone would quietly help.

And then there were the New Year’s Eves — unforgettable times when the whole street came alive. The Buff lads, the Standard regulars, and families from all corners of the village would spill out into the road. The traffic stopped as people linked arms, singing Auld Lang Syne under the yellow glow of the street lamps. Someone always set off a few fireworks, and laughter echoed off the terraced walls. Those moments — those simple, shared moments — were what made Hele so special.

Sometimes, after a long day, I’d stand outside No. 23 and look up and down the street. The sound of a baby crying somewhere, a radio playing in a front room, the faint rumble of a passing bus. It was ordinary life, yes — but it was full of warmth, full of belonging. Coming from Lytes Road and Edinburgh Road in Brixham, I knew what a close-knit community felt like. And Hele had that same spirit. It welcomed us like family.

Years later, when I look back, I realise those were the best days of our lives — not because we had much, but because we had enough. We had each other. We had friendship, laughter, and a village that knew how to care.

Hele Rovers may have stopped playing, the pubs may have gone, and Orchard Road may look different now — but for those of us who lived it, that time will never fade. The shouts from Barton Downs, the clink of pint glasses in the Buff, the glow of the fire at No. 23 — they all live on, part of who we are.

We didn’t know it then, but we were living through something rare — a time when loyalty, laughter, and local pride still meant everything. And for me, it all began with love, a wedding ring, and the key to that little house on Orchard Road.